


Sea Shells

by AppliedMethodology



Category: Welcome to Night Vale
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-29
Updated: 2014-01-29
Packaged: 2018-01-10 12:12:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 913
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1159606
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AppliedMethodology/pseuds/AppliedMethodology
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“We used to collect shells—sea shells,” Cecil said one evening, while they were curled together on their sofa, watching what appeared to be some sort of pantomime on the television.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sea Shells

**Author's Note:**

> This was a birthday fic for a friend of mine, from tumblr. Completely unbeta'd, and really just an excuse for copious amounts of fluff.

“We used to collect shells— ** _sea shells_** ,” Cecil said one evening, while they were curled together on their sofa, watching what **_appeared_** to be some sort of pantomime on the television. They hadn’t set out to watch it, and the television wasn’t turned on, but it was there, and they were there, so it seemed like what they were supposed to be doing. It made very little sense, and as the minutes ticked by, it was hard to say if they were actually watching anything at all; it was quite possible it was a black screen. Either way, it was relaxing and almost hypnotic. So **_almost hypnotic_** , in fact, that it took Carlos a moment to process what Cecil had said.

“Sea shells?” he asked, and received a hum in response. **_Sea shells._** “Who?”

“ ** _We_**.” Carlos was about to remind him about their deal on cryptic remarks, and how it really helped to explain them sometimes, to prevent panic or worry, but Cecil seemed to remember on his own. “My mother,” he went on. “My mother, me, and—“ Here he hesitated, and seemed almost lost for a moment, brow furrowing. “And **_someone_** else. I can’t remember who.” He waved it off; it didn’t matter, it had been such a long time ago that surely he couldn’t be expected to remember every detail. It was lucky that he remembered any of it at all. His memories of his mother, and the rest of his childhood, were fleeting at best.

Cecil stretched and did his best to press closer, pulling Carlos’ arm around him, and Carlos was happy to comply. He took it a bit farther and shifted so that they could lie down, Cecil either mostly on top of him, or pressed close beside him. Cecil chose to be mostly on top of him, Carlos’ arms around him, and his head tucked in close, where he could press his lips to the warm skin of Carlos’ neck if he wanted to, or needed to.

"Where did you get the shells?" Carlos asked, tracing patterns onto the bit of Cecil’s lower back that had been exposed in the adjusting. They were patterns that seemed to be there one day, and gone the next; another facet of Cecil that Carlos had taken it upon himself to memorize, so that even when they **_weren’t_** there, he could still trace the twisting designs.

Cecil sighed and waved his hand. “ ** _Here_** and **_there_** , mostly there; we’d see one, and then we’d pick it up, clean it, and figure out where it should go in the collection. **_You know_** , colour, shape, size, relative sentience...” His voice tapered off, faded. He was warm and comfortable, content with where they were, and **_how_** they were, and he could feel himself slowly drifting off. He wasn’t sure if it was genuine sleep, or the trance-like state he sometimes found himself in; it didn’t really matter. If it was sleep, then he would take it when he could, if it wasn’t sleep, then that was also fine, and he could pretend it was.

“I like them. They’re pretty, **_just like you_** ,” he added, smiling to himself and pressing a kiss to Carlos’ pulse. “Even when they’re broken, and chipped, they’re still pretty. Sharp, and easily utilized as a weapon, but pretty.”

“Which were your favourite, Cielito?” Carlos wanted to ask more questions; other questions, not all pertaining to **_how_** or **_where_** they found the shells. It was a rare look into Cecil’s past; into his childhood. They were memories that he either willfully ignored, or had forgotten, and it was only through moments like these, or when he’d had too much to drink, that Cecil really seemed to recall any of it.

“Ceriths,” Cecil said, lifting one hand as if it took a great effort, to twirl a finger. “They’re the long, pointy ones. Like little towers. I preferred the ones with the little canal-things. Uhm—Siphonal Canals; made it look more like a doorway into a tower, or palace, or something.”

Cecil’s voice was losing its definition, its focus, becoming hazy around the edges; Carlos was reminded vaguely of static and the angry hum of crossed wires. He knew Cecil well enough to know that this was evidence of his exhaustion, and that it meant it was very unlikely Cecil would be awake for very much longer.

He thought of moving them to the bedroom-it would be more comfortable, in the long run, than waking on the couch, all stiff-limbed from being unable to move around, or risk falling off. There were pillows and blankets on the bed, neither of which were near the couch. The blanket that had once found its home over the back of the couch had long since ended up as something for Röntgen to curl up on, when he couldn’t curl up on them. Cecil was **_probably_** warm enough to pass as a suitable blanket, given that it wasn’t really that chilly in the house, and Carlos figured that he made a good enough pillow for Cecil to rest on; Cecil hadn’t complained yet.

And, Carlos decided, **_he_** wouldn’t complain if his neck ended up stiff in the morning, or if his feet **_did_** end up a little chilled. Besides, he was nearly certain that Cecil had already fallen asleep, if the stillness of his chest, and slow, steady pulse was any indication. He really needed to ask about that, but it could wait-would have to wait-until morning.


End file.
